


Hold on

by bloodandcream



Series: The more the merrier [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, fucked up headspaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:11:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad was pouring out the third bottle. Bobby was slumped back in a battered old wing back chair and Dad’s lips were wet with licking them in the soft yellow light of the floor lamp that illuminated the room. Dean felt, he felt, kind of not really there. Like you do when you’ve had some pills because you got beat up on a hunt. Or when, you’ve just gotten beat up and there are no pills and everything starts to suspend, floating. There’s a sour twist in his belly and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this drunk. Doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on

Dean sipped his beer as he sat on the ratty old couch in Bobby’s house, listening to the two old men argue in that sort of way they did which was kind of mean but kind of complimenting each other at the same time. It had been a good hunt, a hell of a lot better than they usually went. Dean had a small cut across his forehead and Dad’s side would probably bruised all purple tomorrow, but it had gone well. With the three of them, they’d dug up the grave in record time and burned those bones down. 

Normally, Dad would insist that he didn’t need any help on a ghost case, or that he and Dean could handle it just fine. But Sammy had been settled in Sioux Falls for a few months with Bobby, and when they’d come to visit and Bobby had a hunt all lined up, they went in on it together. Hey, strength in numbers or something like that. Mostly, Dean could get his dad’s reluctance to let anyone else in, call it pride or something. Dean felt that too. Felt like he needed to prove himself to his dad. That he was a good hunter, capable. Hell, he was almost seventeen. 

Sometimes, Dean got uncomfortable about their father drinking when Sam was around. It was just like lighting a match and setting it to a can of kerosene. Those two bickered like cats and dogs. But Sam was out, over at a friend’s house. He’d only been in this shit podunk town for a few months and Sam was making friends at school, having sleepovers on Friday night. Dean was never good at that. He could charm his way into a girls pants but it was always a temporary thing. Sam, with his disarming smile and puppy eyes, he had a way of squirming himself into other people’s lives. Other people’s families. Like he could just trade up. 

Whatever. Sam wasn’t here tonight. The hunt had gone really well and Dad and Bobby were trading old stories trying to one up each other while they drank and let their bodies relax, giving up the terse hold of the hunt. Dean was happy to sit on the couch and listen, sip his beer, laugh when it seemed right and pretend that he knew what was going on. That he was old enough to understand all of it. 

Course, Dad brought out the whiskey too. Bobby, well he’d had a few beers and he was laughing too, and he took what Dad poured into his glass. 

Then Dad gave Dean a glass with whiskey in it. Dean felt his stomach clench. He drank beer all the time with his old man. But whiskey. Yeah he knew what that meant. He had thought he did good, hunting side by side with the older men. But Dad was giving him whiskey. Dean took it. 

“Deserve a little something, don’t you think son.”

“I, I did good right dad?”

“You did good Dean. Drink it.”

Dean nodded, he did as his Dad told, he sat back in the couch feeling a lot smaller than he did a few minutes ago and he drank what his dad gave him. He’d only had something this strong a few times before, but he wasn’t going to choke on it this time. Bobby and Dad didn’t. They swilled it back with a smile on their faces and their cheeks growing redder and they kept on going. Soon the whole bottle was empty and Dad was going for another in the kitchen. 

Dean laughed, and he drank what his dad gave him, because he was old enough to do this, he was old enough to be the man that he was supposed to be and he was a good son and Dad was laughing with Bobby about something and it was ok. It was ok. Dad had given him a few more half full glasses of whiskey since then. Dean pretended like he knew what to talk about, like he had that bravado, that cocky arrogance, that he desperately wished he did. 

Dad was pouring out the third bottle. Bobby was slumped back in a battered old wing back chair and Dad’s lips were wet with licking them in the soft yellow light of the floor lamp that illuminated the room. Dean felt, he felt, kind of not really there. Like you do when you’ve had some pills because you got beat up on a hunt. Or when, you’ve just gotten beat up and there are no pills and everything starts to suspend, floating. There’s a sour twist in his belly and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this drunk. Doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be again. 

Sometimes Dad is sitting across from him talking to Bobby, but then he’s not in the room anymore, and Bobby’s moved to a different chair, and when did Dean slump to the floor. It kind of strobes, like one of those black lights, that makes everything start and stop, start and stop. 

Dean’s kneeling on the floor and he figures it’s because everything is so heavy, his body is so heavy and he can’t get up. Dad stands in front of him, and the sound of a zipper being undone cuts through Dean’s consciousness, or lack of it. Eyes flying wide, Dean knows what’s happening. He knows. And he knows better. Better than last time, better than he has before. He knows. 

Dean opens his mouth. It’s not that hard. Everything is heavy, the world is heavy and his mouth wants to open. He can recognize the deep rumble of his Dad’s voice, a jumbled slurred thing telling him he’s good, he’s a good son, and yeah, he is isn’t he, Dean is a good son. There’s a hand holding on to the back of his head as he’s pushed forward and Dean starts to choke. 

“The hell….”

That voice is a little lighter, farther away, it sounds surprised, what could be so surprising. Even Dean knows what’s going on. 

Oh. Bobby. It’s Bobby. He’s sprawled out, in the wing back chair, and his hands are scrabbling at the chairs arms as he stands up and promptly falls back down. 

Dad holds on to Dean. 

Don’t let me go, don’t let me go. 

Dean’s good at this. He knows he is. He knows. He’s better now. So he focuses enough to push up on his knees and he braces one hand on his Dad’s thigh and he sucks. As much as he can, all that he can, down, down, god he’s choking and it’s gonna bring all the whiskey back up and he doesn’t know if he can do this without the whiskey. But Dad is cupping a hand against his cheek, running fingers back through his hair. And that. That’s what he needs to focus on. That sense of being wanted, being needed, being good enough, any kind of small connection with his dad that he can get. Anything. Dean doesn’t even realize his cheeks are wet with more than spit. 

The back of his throat burns and scratches. It’s salty and wet and hot in his mouth and Dean remembers that he’s supposed to swallow. Sagging forward against his dad, those calloused strong hands holding him still, Dean does his best. Dad tucks himself back in and Dean is glad that’s all he needs to do tonight. That it’s good enough. He did well. But then Dad is tugging him along the hard wood floor and the red rug over it scrunches and trips him up. 

Jean clad knees, dirtied with the graveyard, and the arms of the old wingback chair, nails neat and hands rough. Dad is pushing him down. They’re arguing, and Dean doesn’t want them to argue, he doesn’t want them mad at him. He’s good at anything he needs to be good at so he grips on to a knee and tugs himself forward, falls against Bobby’s lap. 

He can’t even understand what they’re saying and any reassurance he tries to stumble past his tangled tongue doesn’t really seem to get registered. It’s ok. Dean’s ok. All of this is ok. He unzips the pants in front of him, pulls out a soft cock, and it’s kind of disappointing but Dean knows what to do. He’s good. 

Everything starts to strobe again. In and out. In and out. Like the lights of a hospital ceiling flicking past when you’re laid out on your back on a gurney being wheeled through sterile white halls. Come and go. In and out. 

Dean’s learned this trick from hospitals but it’s useful. He focuses on something else. He feels the grains of the wood floor beneath his hand and he counts the grooves of one plank to another, like counting the dots on the white hospital ceiling tiles. And he keeps on going. Because he knows he’s strong enough, he knows he can do what his dad wants. There’s a hand still at the back of his head and he knows it’s weight. It’s ok. 

Dean blacks out for good eventually. He has no idea what happened after that. When he wakes up and the snapshot pieces of the night start coming back to him, he’s so glad for the gaping black hole that everything eventually became. They pack up, they move on, they get Sam from his friend’s house and they find a hunt in a different state. 

They don’t see Bobby for a long time after that.


End file.
